


Kosher

by JustJym



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, fisting (kinda), unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJym/pseuds/JustJym
Summary: They never have the time...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short one-shot with a personal headcanon of Pickles' real name... nothing fancy. Enjoy...

“Hmm, fuck yeah, dood. Keep doin' that.”

Pickles' hands were bound with a red necktie, strapped to the headboard above him. His legs were willingly spread wide, hips rolled back so that he left nothing to the imagination. Four average sized fingers were knuckle deep in his ass, thrusting and twirling around, stretching his body beyond its natural limits, his prostate occasionally being pressed.

“Are you feeling alright?” the brunet above him affirmed, pressing his hand in further, watching his lubed knuckles disappear into the redhead's greedy hole. He brushed his finger pads against the swollen prostate, Pickles groaning wantonly and squirming with ecstasy.

“Gahd, yes!” the redhead mewled, arching his back and pulling against his restrains. “C'mon, Charlie. I'm naht... naht fucking glass.”

Charles smirked and raised his free hand, gripping the drummer's neck, pushing down hard. Pickles mouthed, 'fuck,' and his cock throbbed harder than ever before. Charles knew exactly what his drummer needed when he needed it, the best ways to get him off and make sure he was completely satisfied.

He thrust his hand harder, using his thumb to prevent further entry. Neither of them were ready for a full hand yet, Pickles fearing his own body and Charles, his self control. They only ever got together once every few months after the manager became the Priest of the Black Klok, so they explored all their current desires before they were forced to separate again.

Pickles chewed on his lip, raising his hips to meet Charles thrusting hand. The former CFO felt his hand being clenched tightly, signaling his lover was close to orgasm. With a sly smirk, he pulled his hand out, resulting in a whining groan from the drummer. He released the redhead's neck and laid down next to him, his lubed hand rubbing circles on his flushed, freckled chest.

“Charlie,” Pickles whined, “Why'd you stahp? I was ganna fuckin' cum.”

Charles chuckled and nuzzled Pickles' temple, nose brushing against his piercings. “I'm aware of that. But I'm not done with you yet,” he stated, kissing his brow and drifting down to his lips. It was a chaste kiss but full of passion and a need that had yet to be quelled. “How about I untie you and you hop on top of me,” Charles reached down and gripped his aching cock, then chose his next words and tone carefully. “Let daddy take care of you.”

Pickles' eyes locked with Charles, noticing the desire and protectiveness he held within them. They both knew very intimately the relationship Pickles and his father never had, and Charles made sure the be cautious of the boundaries he crossed. Pickles let him push beyond his limitations because he knew Charles was the only one he could trust on this level. He was the only one he'd ever opened up to about his father, aside from the rehabilitation clinic. However, 'daddy,' was Pickles doing, having accidentally said it during one of there rougher sexual encounters, and neither had done anything about it.

The redhead leaned forward as far as his restraints would allow him, Charles noticing his efforts and meeting him the rest of the way. Pickles' beard scratched his face as their kiss developed into something more primal, the smaller man ready to take Charles up on his claim. The ex-manager pulled at his tie, the bond slipping with ease and freeing the drummer. Strong, pale arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss, exploring each others mouths in an undistinguished manner.

Charles pulled at the lithe body against him, rolling the man on top of him, feeling slick thighs straddle his waist. The brunet rest his palms on Pickles' hips, pushing him downward, rubbing his hardened cock on the freckled ass of his lover. Pickles groaned as he rubbed his slick hole against Charles' erection, raising his body to attempt to line up with it. Charles reached between his legs, gripping his need and pressing his head against the dripping hole.

Warmth surrounded him, clenched as tight as it could and settled, completely sheathing him. “Fuck, yeah, Charlie!” Pickles moaned wantonly, already starting to raise his hips only to slam back down. Charles planted his feet, knees bent and hands gripping thin hips, thrusting upward roughly. Pickles gasped, his nails digging into Charles' chest. The redhead's hole wasn't as tight as he would've liked, even if it was his own doing, but making sex easier for Pickles was his main priority. Plus, the obscurity of the sounds his body made was more than enough to make up for his shameful handiwork.

Pickles wreathed and mewled above him, rolling his hips in time with Charles' thrusts, increasing the pressure on his sweet spots. “Gahd, yes!,” he shouted as he through his head back, “C'mon ahn, Charlie! Show me whose bahss!”

Charles bared his teeth, thrusting harder into the soft, wet hole, ready to stake his claim once again on the smaller man. With his fingers bruising the redhead's hips, and those talons carving unspoken love into his chest, he knew it wouldn't be too much longer before he filled his lover's insides. He raised his hands to Pickles' arms, pulling him down to his chest, then rolling him onto his back, burying his nose into fiery locks draped over the drummer's shoulder. His pounding was relentless as he asserted his dominance, his teeth digging into the flushed neck, threatening to break the skin.

Pickles clawed at his back, definitely leaving scars this time, howling his name and any obscenity that came to mind. “Fuck, Charlie, I'm fixin' tah blow!”

Two more hard thrusts on Pickles' prostate and he was gone, shoved over the edge and plummeting down the cliff until he struck rock. The redhead's nails drug across his back to his neck, then down his chest; Charles prayed that they would stain his flesh. He wore all of Pickles' marks with pride, leaving no mistake of whom he belonged to. Charles finished soon after, ramming his hips into Pickles', nearly breaking them.

Both of them were panting heavily, Charles pressing his sweat slicked forehead against Pickles', a stray dred caressing his face. He waited for his high to pass, then decided it best to clean up, reaching for the towel he'd laid out before they started getting to heated. He raised up, sitting on his haunches, still hard inside of Pickles, and wiped down the cum soaked chest and belly. If he had the energy he would've licked him clean; completely. Yet, it was late and they'd already exhausted any reserved fuel they had left, leaving Charles to curse their aging bodies.

Once he was wiped clean, Pickles' raised his arms to pull Charles to him, the brunet obliging his wishes. He pulled the small man into his arms, their legs tangling as he fell to his side, nuzzling their noses. He felt a hand rub over the long trails of red running across his neck and chest. “I'm sahrry 'bout that,” the redhead apologized, smiling sheepishly.

Charles furrowed his brows, taking the hand into his with more force than he intended to, causing the redhead to lock eyes with him. “Don't ever apologize for stuff like this,” Charles spoke firmly. “I don't get you as much as I would like and these marks help keep you close to me. Even if you stabbed me, I would still cherish it until I died.”

Pickles chuckled, shaking his head, “That's ah bit brutal, Charlie. But I still love that 'bout you.”

His smile became toothy as he pressed his nose closer to Charles', enjoying what contact he had left with him. They closed their eyes, relishing the moment of silent peace. Suddenly, Charles felt the words swell in his throat, nearly bursting through his teeth as he bit them back. The words he'd been wanting to say for so long, but never felt it was a good time to say them, especially after joining the Black Klok. Since their next encounter would be completely unexpected, he decided that he should say them now before he lost his chance.

“Pickles,” Charles called softly, then reassessed his approach. “Dillon.”

Pickles' eyes shot open at the sound of his own name. The one he'd forgotten so long ago. He'd given it up when he started getting into the wrong crowd. He was tired of the constant teasing from Seth, always calling him 'Dill' which later became everyone's joke of 'Dill Pickles.' He embraced the insult until people got used to the idea and left him alone. He hated the name, and Charles knew this, only using it when he truly wanted Pickles to listen to him.

“Yeah,” Pickles answered, but kept his guard up.

Charles pushed him so that he was on his back, keeping their eyes on each other. The brunet placed a hand on the redhead's cheek, holding it there for a moment before slipping it downward, running it over his neck and chest, circling his belly and came back up to his collarbone. “Our relationship is more important to me than anything else in the universe. But with the church, my time with you has become so limited, and I feel that I can't give you want you need. But I don't want to give you up either. I just... Dillon, I...”

Pickles felt his stomach turn. He knew this would happen. It was bound to. Charles was never around as much as he used to. Pickles got lonely, resulting in burying himself in booze and drugs and women. He knew Charles didn't like it, but he had told him that if it helped him cope with the separation, he would allow it under strict monitoring from his chosen klokateers. He didn't like it, but he couldn't complain considering someone was genuinely concerned with his well-being. Now, however, he knew was going to change everything. He glanced over at his nightstand of two standing bottles of empty beer and one over turned, leaving a sticky residue in its wake. 'I'm comin' back for good, fella's.'

“I love you.”

Every emotion he was feeling washed from his body, his face and eyes unreadable, his mind blank. Did he hear Charles right? Did he just tell him he loved him? Confusion filled his features as the glanced back at the brunet. He furrowed his brows, still trying to process what Charles just said to him.

“What'd you jus' say?” Pickles asked in an almost threatening tone.

Charles swallowed hard and spoke more clearly, “I said I love you, Dillon. I have for a long time and I was worried I'd never get to tell you. We hardly see each other and I just wanted you to know how I really feel about you.”

Pickles felt his brow knit tighter, his expression nearly becoming angry, cause Charles to fear his actions were unforgivable. Then, Pickles started tearing up. He tired to hide behind his hand, covering his eyes, but his quivering lip gave it all away. “Dammit, Charlie,” he cursed, turning his head away.

“I'm sorry,” Charles said regrettably.

“No,” the redhead snapped. “No, don't be. Just...” The emotions took him over. He hated when he got emotional; it was so not metal. Everything starting coming down all at once, how no one but Charles had ever really been concerned about him or wanted to connect with him. No one ever liked who he really was; the alcoholic drug addict that couldn't let shit go. Charles had stuck with him through it all, even helping him with overdoses before Dethklok was famous. When his band mates wanted him to get clean, it was for their own reasons; for him to stop costing them so much money in repairs. Charles, on the other hand, wanted him clean for his health. Charles' words were never more truer when he said, “'What if I'm not around in the future?'”

What would he have done if Charles hadn't been there for him? Family drama, drug overdoses, turning him on his side when he drank more than he should, defending him in court even if they both knew he was guilty; Charles cared almost too much for him. It made his heart swell to hear those words he hadn't heard since he was a child. It was too surreal for him to accept just yet, but he wouldn't deny Charles should he choose to keep saying it. He'd need time to process his own emotions, but giving up Charles was not an option.

He curled into the brunet's body, wanting to be held by those strong arms, to which we was granted. He kept his sobbing light, but to be held by someone who truly cared about him and openly confessed their love, it was hard to stay in control. Even after being held by the same man for nearly fifteen years, hearing those three words brought everything into perspective. He'd been loved from the start, just not by the people he wanted to love him.

“You always gatta make things sound so much worse than they reely are,” Pickles chuckled into the strong chest after calming down. “You made it sound like you were ganna leave me.”

The arms pulled him in tighter, a hand stroking his hair. “I could never give you up. Not for the band, or the church, or even the universe. You're mine.”

To hear someone stake their claim on him was grounding for him. Someone wanted him all to themselves, and someone he wanted all to himself. The world around them couldn't have been more perfect. “Charlie,” he spoke, his voice shaking. “I... I love... I love you too.”

Charles smiled to himself and continued to hold the redhead in his arms, petting him until the church called him home. Or until Pickles started snoring against him. He pulled back, careful not to wake his sleeping beauty. He had wanted to stay until morning, but the church wouldn't allow it. He slipped from the bed, kissing Pickles on his temple, stroking a stray dred back on top of his head. He covered him with his blanket and pulled his clothes back on.

**Author's Note:**

> I accept all suggestions and requests, but that doesnt mean they all will be done.
> 
> just-jym.tumblr.com


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